


revisited

by fortheloveoflestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, cleaning out my drafts, small fluffy bits mostly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:58:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8982802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveoflestrade/pseuds/fortheloveoflestrade
Summary: http://fideliant.tumblr.com/post/72670284503/this-wasnt-the-way-it-was-supposed-to-happenThis wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.(AU fix-it where Mary is chill, and John can’t even pretend to move on after Sherlock ‘dies’)





	1. revisited

**Author's Note:**

> http://fideliant.tumblr.com/post/72670284503/this-wasnt-the-way-it-was-supposed-to-happen  
> This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.  
> (AU fix-it where Mary is chill, and John can’t even pretend to move on after Sherlock ‘dies’)

John meets her at work. Mary’s the new nurse, very nice. Attractive, but not overwhelmingly so. John’s type—back when he had a type. A type that wasn’t gangly with floppy curls and sweeping lines.

Already he’s been on his own for nearly a year, and he can’t do it anymore. He misses Sherlock with everything inside him, and if he can’t ease that hollow ache, even a little, he won’t last. He can feel it, and it terrifies him that it doesn’t terrify him. 

They flirt steadily--mostly she flirts--for the first month or so. He tries to ask her out for coffee, flustered and nervous. Even though he makes a tiny bit of an ass of himself, she accepts graciously. They go during their lunch, and he avoids the topic of Sherlock at all costs, having to redirect the conversation when it veers too close a few times. Not yet. He can’t do that yet.

They have lunch together a few times a week for the next month before they go on a proper dinner date. She asks. He accepts, blushing, feeling a little incompetent but also relieved. 

She knows him by now, knows what conversation points to toe around. She’s even done a little research of her own, just for context. Not enough to understand the whole story, just for a little perspective on John’s past. Together they go through a bottle and a half of wine, and she invites him back to her place for coffee, both of them giggly and a little flushed. 

She sits him down on her couch and kisses him breathless. At least, she thinks it’s the kissing that makes him breathless. Once that slows down he clears his throat, ever the gentleman, and asks, “Need help with the coffee?”

—

The next date, at her place, sees him through a few beers and a couple glasses of whiskey, and he gets chatty. He starts off telling a story that eventually turns into a case he worked with Sherlock, the Connie Prince murder, with the brother and the hairless cat, and by the time he realizes what’s happening he’s almost hyperventilating and Mary’s rubbing his back, trying to calm him down. 

It takes every ounce of strength left in his slightly-inebriated body to not turn into a sobbing mess, because he won’t do that to Mary, even though he suspects she wouldn’t actually mind it as much as he fears.

He gets his breathing back to normal and Mary brings him a glass of water and some bedding for the couch. She kisses him chastely on the lips, asks him if he’s alright, and when he nods, she leaves him with a quiet “goodnight”.

He avoids seeing her anywhere but work for the next week, until she corners him on his lunch break and tells him he has nothing to be embarrassed about. They make another date at her place.

John considers canceling multiple times. He likes Mary, likes her a lot, but he can’t promise things he should be able to. There’s almost nothing guaranteed in his future, and he doesn’t want to give her false expectations. 

But he goes, if only to reconcile and end it like a decent human being.

Immediately, he regrets it. Mary, ever the caretaker, prods him about Sherlock, about his feelings. He manages to talk about small things, at least for a little while, but when the conversation gets too close to his death, John breaks down again, shouting at Mary for pushing him and collapsing onto her couch, head in his hands, breathing heavy but not dangerously. “I’m sorry,” he says, for the second time in her living room. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, John. It’s obvious he meant a lot to you. I don’t expect you to be okay with any of it, and I’m sorry if I was prying.”

She wasn’t, not really, she was just curious and John was overwhelmed by himself. 

Instead, he says, “I don’t know if I can do this, Mary.”

She nods, no questions. “You shouldn’t have to if you don’t want to,” she tells him. 

“I do want to,” he says, “but I can’t.”

She leans in to him, but lets him close the gap. 

The kiss goes from tender to heated very quickly, and before he knows it his jumper and shirt are off and her blouse is open.

“We shouldn’t,” he breathes between them. 

“Because you can’t, or because you don’t want to?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not. I expect nothing, John. I do want this. But if you don’t, my feelings won’t be hurt.”

He takes a deep breath, inhale and exhale. 

“It’s all fine,” she whispers.

They end up in her bed.

—

Over time, he opens up a little more. But Mary still feels a certain part of it all has been left out.

They’ve been ‘dating’ for six months, but there’s still a part of John he keeps from her. And that’s fine, if only she knew why. She only wants to understand.

Rather than wondering, she simply asks him.

“Were you and Sherlock together?” she whispers, one night while they lay in her bed. He’d spent several evenings there, but a decent portion of those nights had been fully clothed. This night was not.

He inhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

She thinks about taking it back, telling him not to answer, but she knows if he really doesn’t want to he won’t. So she lets it hang there, for him to take or leave.

After a few moments he sighs. His eyes relax but he keeps them closed, not looking at her. “No.”

She knows he won’t expand on it unless asked. “Did you want to be?”

“I didn’t know at the time,” he says, “but now, yes, I think I did.”

Mary breathes slowly. “Did he?”

John flinches, but recovers. “I don’t know,” he says. “I won’t ever know. And I don’t think I could handle knowing.”

She doesn’t ask anything else, and eventually they both drift off to sleep.

—

They remain somewhere in the middle for some time. Sometimes Mary feels like John’s girlfriend, and other times she feels like his therapist. Most often, she simply feels like his friend, and that’s okay. She doesn’t try to push him any more, and if he feels like sharing usually he will, for a little while. But this is where they hover, on the edges of a relationship, until it’s been a year since they met. He insists on taking her out for a nice anniversary dinner, somewhere special.

Sometimes, John feels guilty about not being emotionally present in the relationship. Mary doesn’t seem to mind, but it still bothers him. She seems most interested in making sure he’s okay rather than trying to push them forward, and for that he’s grateful. But he still feels like he’s holding her back, keeping her from going out and finding something real for herself, so he tries to make an effort whenever opportunities present themselves, hence dinner.

They both get dressed up, and go to the restaurant John made reservations at weeks ago. 

But then.

But then.

But then, miracle of miracles, out of nowhere, here comes Sherlock. Dead but 'Not dead’. Mary’s head is spinning and John’s clearly upset.

He tackles Sherlock to the floor.

—

Of course, they’re kicked out of the restaurant, and somehow they all end up well-dressed at some street diner. Sherlock seems to not understand how distraught John is, though both of them look physically relieved to be in each other’s presences they are on edge, especially John. Mary mostly watches them in awe, seeing everything John’s told her about, and just being there to take care of John and discover this new person John seems to be becoming.

But then John punches Sherlock and they're booted onto the street, Sherlock holding bloodied napkins up to his nose and John down the block, fuming and attempting to hail a cab.

“I’ll talk him 'round,” Mary tells Sherlock.

He looks down, makes a face. “Why?”

Mary looks at him, the strange mix of pain and relief in his eyes. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” he asks, leaning his head back once again.

“I’ll talk him 'round,” she repeats. John calls to her. “I would go get that nose looked at.”

She turns and leaves him there, bleeding on the sidewalk. ”Thank you,” she thinks she hears behind her, but doesn’t turn back. It was probably the wind.


	2. sussex

“I’m going to finish the sitting room today,” John tells Sherlock.

They’re still in bed. The early morning sun is breaking through their window, streaking across the duvet.

“Hmmph,” Sherlock replies, face still buried in John’s chest.

John smiles, runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Do you want breakfast?”

Sherlock shakes his head, brushing his nose against John’s shirt. He mumbles something John doesn’t understand.

“What’s that?”

Sherlock only lifts his head long enough to pronounce “Just tea,” and then is back in John’s shirt. His hand finds the hem and slides underneath, tracing lazy, intricate nothingness into John’s stomach.

“Can I at least make you some toast, Sherlock? The doctor said you need to be eating on a more regular schedule.”

Sherlock groans, his body vibrating against John’s. “If you must,” Sherlock deigns, and then rolls over.

John chuckles softly, preparing himself to rise from the bed. His back hadn’t been at its best in the past few years, and some things required more effort than when he was a younger man.

Sherlock, however, seemed to only have gotten more graceful with age. Though his movements were lesser, they were more deliberate.

“Alright,” John says, giving Sherlock a playful pat on his rear, and then pushes himself up and out of the bed. He stands, stretches, finds his balance, and then sets off toward the kitchen downstairs.


	3. fireworks

Fireworks are wonderful. Bright, shiny, colorful things that amaze and astound people of all ages.

John’s favorite part was the before, the nervous anticipation and the fiery whiz of the small explosive high up into the sky.

He’s reminded of that, that first night with Sherlock. Looking back, it was the first time in a long time that John had felt something, other than a debilitating disconnect with the world around him. 

The part after the fireworks, when the embers fall and fade into the dark night, when the smoke floats away and dissipates, that was always Sherlock’s favorite part, as a child. The calm after the storm.

Looking back, he can’t quite recall the draw of such delights—until the night he looks at John, after their first chase.

The chase, the fireworks, all lead in to Sherlock’s favorite moment—the calm after the storm, an eye in the hurricane that is to become their life.

—

As they lean back against the wall outside of 221A, at the bottom of the stairwell toward 221B, heaving and panting and trying to arch their breath, that’s when Sherlock sees it.

And for a brief moment, he allows himself to revel. To appreciate. He lets himself want, only just this once, to curl up in this moment and live there. He memorizes this—the pull of his diaphragm as he attempts to reoxygenate his body, the way John looks hunched over and laughing breathlessly, the way his mind reels and he does not observe but only see—against all instincts.

This, he thinks, is the beginning of…something. Of what, though?

He leaves that for another time. The adrenaline start to fade, and his breathing slowly rights itself. His mind jumpstarts back into analysis mode.

“So what were we doing there, anyway?” John asks.

“Oh, just, passing the time,” he says, looking over at John, “and proving a point.”

“What point?”

“You,” he says, then calls out, “Mrs. Hudson, Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs!”

“Says who?” John interrupts.

Sherlock’s looking at him, now. He smiles. “Says the man at the door.”

And there it all began.


	4. bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> parentlock fluff. written before s4, after playing with my little brother. all mistakes are my own.

“Papa?”

Sherlock slid back into consciousness slowly, a warm body snuggled against him. Not the larger, solid form of his husband, but the small, nearly vibrating form of their son.

“‘Mish?” he replied.

“Where’s Daddy?” Hamish stage-whispered, as all four year olds do when they try—and fail—to be quiet.

Sherlock lifted a hand, rubbing at his eye and pushing some hair back from his face. “He had to work this morning, pet.” 

“Oh.” The small body wriggled closer, small fingers clutching at his loose sleep shirt and cold toes burrowing in between his knees.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked the boy, too tired to turn his head for the alarm clock by their bed, and his phone just out of reach beyond it. 

His head turned away from Sherlock’s chest, and then back. “Seven and thirty six,” Hamish recited. He had only just started grasping the concept of time, but he knew his numbers well enough to accommodate.

Sherlock groaned softly. “How long ago did you wake up?”

“Seven and twelve. Had to use the toilet, then looked for Daddy. I think Missus Hudson is still a-sleeping.”

“No baking?”

“No baking.”

Sherlock settled further into the bed, wrapping arms around his son. “Breakfast: now or later?” he asked softly.

He felt the small body hum for a moment, then curl in closer.

“Later, then,” he sighed.

They dozed for another hour or so, until they heard Mrs. Hudson puttering around downstairs. 

As such, Sherlock’s stomach gurgled, calling out in hunger. Hamish giggled at him.

“Don’t tell Daddy,” he whispered to the boy, which earned him another soft giggle.

Sherlock inhaled once more before forcing himself upwards, pulling the bedclothes along with him and revealing Hamish burrowed underneath. He kicked himself free of them and slid his arms under the boy, lifting him from the bed and swinging him around to perch on his back. 

They did this often, when Hamish required contact and Sherlock required movement and—now that Hamish could hold himself aloft without too much help—use of his hands. Sherlock told them how it was mimicking primate parenting, but John made jokes to Hamish about how Sherlock was wearing him like a jetpack. Both analogies were humorous to the boy.

“Where to, monkey?” Sherlock asked.

“Two-two-one-A!” Hamish announced, finger thrust forward, ready to charge.

“As you wish,” he returned, and they set off in the direction of the familiar sounds of Mrs. Hudson’s baking.


End file.
